


Stupid Deep

by grlnrdpnbby



Series: Sebastien le Livre and The Human Condition [1]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Past Attempted Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:47:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28913328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grlnrdpnbby/pseuds/grlnrdpnbby
Summary: The burn on his hands from the crumpled remains of his last joint had disappeared completely. He leant down and grabbed some gravel off the ground and rubbed it into his hands until they went red. It started burning but he could not stop, he couldn’t, he needed to feel but he still didn’t feel in control. The world would always keep on turning. And he would always be sitting here, burning, inside and out. Hurting, breathing and he could not stop it, no one could stop it.These are a set of drabbles all set post Booker's betrayal and pre House Plants and Yoga.They're all going to be relatively angst and sad and please read the tags for trigger warnings.
Series: Sebastien le Livre and The Human Condition [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2120571
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Stupid Deep

**Author's Note:**

> The chapters may not be in chronological order but it doesn't really matter and will make sense. I can date the chapters if you guys want though. - please read the tags for trigger warnings. Sorry to anyone hoping for a HP&Y update, I wasn't feeling it so I worked on this instead.
> 
> He needs to get out of London after betraying the group.

He dragged himself out of the bar, his legs unwilling to cooperate as he took a last drag of the joint that was starting to burn his fingers.

“Put it out you stupid fuck.” A man said as he tugged Bookers arm over his shoulder.

“Joe?” Booker said with an air of wonder as he put his joint out in his hand.

“Mark. Where are you headed?”

“Outside” Everything was becoming faster as Booker’s brain seemed to slow down, time felt like it was spiralling.

The man who was not Joe bragged Booker’s body over to a bench. He pulled out a pen and started jabbing at Booker’s arm.

“I don’t want another tattoo Nicky.” He tried to pull himself away but the buzz in his brain crowded him.

“This is … number, call … need a lift, … ambulance … capiche?” Bookers brain filtered in and out of reality flicking like pages between thoughts of the man in front of him and blissful numbness.

“Sì” The man walked off back inside, mumbling and taking a last swig from his glass before he disappeared, and Booker opened his hand.

The burn on his hands from the crumpled remains of his last joint had disappeared completely. He leant down and grabbed some gravel off the ground and rubbed it into his hands until they went red. It started burning but he could not stop, he couldn’t, he needed to feel but he still didn’t feel in control. The world would always keep on turning. And he would always be sitting here, burning, inside and out. Hurting, breathing and he could not stop it, no one could stop it.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Oy. Get off, out boy, out.” Someone was poking him, shoving him and he fell off the bench and promptly threw up over the gravel, just missing his guitar case. He had emptied his larger guns and knifes into a safe a few nights ago and was using it as a suitcase. 

“FUCKS SAKE!” He cursed and watched on as Booker heaved and threw up seemingly everything he had eaten in the last week. It gushed up his throat over and over and over, he sat on his knees, shaking and cold in his bones. 

“Get out!” The voice scowled as Booker hefted himself up onto his feet and scrambled away like a stray cat caught eating out of bins.

As soon as he had turned the corner he leant against the wall and pulled his hip flask from the inside of his battered coat, he still smelt vaguely of his intestines and he flicked a droplet of his dinner off his shoulder. The dull burn of the whiskey dragging its way down his throat was a familiar, comforting sensation.

The early sun danced on his face as he dragged his feet through the streets of London. His mind settled as his liver no doubt regenerated and his hands itched to flick a lighter. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

His mind was screaming at him by the time he had dragged himself to entrance of City Airport, but he knew no one would let him buy a plane ticket to anywhere if he had one last drink. So he shoved his clammy hands firmly in his pockets [like a shoplifter in front of CCTV.], straightened his back and walked over to the desk.

His head was thumping but whatever he had smoked was starting to wear off. 

“Bonjour! I am looking to buy a one-way ticket to Paris?” He turned up his accent and stared at the woman through his sunglasses.

“Of course, sir. The next flight available is the 2300 to Paris Orly.” She sent him a generic smile as she tapped away at the keyboard.

He looked over to the clock above her head, he had never liked clocks, ticking eternally, used and rarely appreciated, their monotonous existence seemed to reflect his own in a way he had come to be distinctly uncomfortable with. It was like staring into a shattered mirror, fragments of himself reflected back at him.

It was 6am.

“Perfect,” he muttered, the woman was looking at him sympathetically, he hated sympathy, his mouth struggled to catch up with his mind. “How much?”

She started talking again and his brain refused to listen as he pulled his hand out of his pocket. Fuck. He had not thought this through.

His flexed his hand and reached resolutely for his wallet, inches from his hip flask. He pulled the worn leather out of his jacket and pulled out card and passport of one ‘Lucas Anholt’.

She took her sweet time tasking down the details as her fingers tapped tapped tapped tapped tapped tapped tapped tapped tapped and tapped and tapped-

“Sir?” Her voice cut through the thoughts spinning in his head. Loud, everything was too loud.

“Oui, sorry, lost in thought. Thank you.” He grabbed whatever she was handing him and shoved it firmly back into his pockets along with his hands.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He was going to have to be relatively sober to get on the flight, which was fine. Mostly. He was surprised the woman had let him buy a ticket, probably the glasses and the early hour.

He ambled over to a vending machine and bought himself a stupidly expensive bottle of water and went in search of a seat to sleep off his mild hangover in. He didn’t remember the last time he had had to do that, normally he didn’t stop drinking for long enough to develop one. He had also never drunk so much in a week before, even when his wife had passed. Oh, how shocked she would be to see him now, he let out a bitter laugh and settled down on a chair next to a charging point. He held his guitar case loosely between his legs and plugged his phone in. He tipped his head back and scrunched his eyes shut, gripped his case and let his mind go.

**Author's Note:**

> As usual its just been me and spell check against the world so please let me know if you spot anything.
> 
> Stupid Deep - Acoustic by Jon Bellion
> 
> Kudos, comments, constructive criticism and suggestions all mean the world to me <3


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